Deserving
by jellinor
Summary: "Rikkai Dai Fuzoku..." The stadium has fallen completely silent, and even that wild boy from Shitenhouji has stopped flailing about. "Please, collect your award." [Yukimura-centric one-shot.]


Author's Note: An unusually persistent plot bunny that just wouldn't leave me alone. Set at the closing ceremony of the National Tournament (roughly manga-centric, by the way, though mostly fabricated) and told exclusively from Yukimura's point of view, it is yet another little tribute to the Troika from Kanagawa.

As a long-time Rikkai fan, I tried my best to do justice to Yukimura and his crew of loyal underlings, but as always the verdict is ultimately yours. So let me know how I did, okay? This author appreciates everything constructive (^.^)/

Disclaimer: Sadly, _The Prince of Tennis_ is in no way, shape or form, mine.

* * *

**Deserving**

-#-

"...runners-up, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku!"

When the name of their school is finally called out, the whole stadium erupts in noise, and he is pleased to note that it's not the polite, meaningless sort (like the limp, meaningless clapping in the wake of last year's disappointing final against Makinofuji), but spontaneous, uninhibited, _overwhelming_. It is the kind that attests to true appreciation; and all around them hundreds of hands are sent crashing into each other, and their chant – _Rikkai's_ _chant_ – has spread far beyond the boundaries of their own group of faithful supporters, drowning nearly everything in sound.

As he stands there, electrified by the cheering and the chanting and with the adrenaline from earlier still pulsing through every corner of his body, Yukimura suddenly feels more alive than ever, and for that he can almost forgive Tezuka's Seigaku for its insolence. That, was a final that will not be forgotten for a few years yet... if, perhaps, ever.

"Runners-up, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku," repeats the man (probably the director of the Tokyo Tennis Arena or someone equally bureaucratic) into his microphone, a little more impatiently this time, and the racket immediately levels and dies down.

And all eyes are on him now. Yukimura can feel _that_ quite clearly: fourth-place Nagoya Seitoku's assembled members' from his left, Seigaku and third-place Shitenhouji's from his right, his own teammates' from behind and everyone else's from all around. But he keeps his default smile firmly in place, giving no indication whatsoever that he means to move away from his spot at the very front of Rikkai's line-up.

He notes that the man presiding on the low stage (a hastily put-together structure on Centre Court, completed while Seigaku's celebration raged at its worst) is clutching his microphone as if his life – or, rather, the success of the event – depended on it. Perhaps some of his nervousness stems from the many flashing cameras and the crowd of sport reporters courtside, or even from sharing the limelight with the immensely popular president of the All Japan Junior Tennis Association; but Yukimura finds the prospect of Director-san somehow hearing about the closing ceremony at this year's Kantou Tournament, where Yukimura's darling, idiot team caused quite a scandal by stubbornly refusing their medals, and now fearing a similarly dramatic conclusion here at his own event, a much, _much_ more entertaining alternative.

"Rikkai Dai Fuzoku." The stadium has now fallen completely silent, and even that wild boy from Shitenhouji has stopped flailing about. "_Please_, collect your award."

But Yukimura doesn't move. His sense, however, are quick to register the growing anticipation in the barely-there movements of his team lined up behind him, and this tells him all that he needs to know: Rikkai remains as loyal as it always was, and it will follow him should he simply choose to walk out on the proceedings right now.

Of course, a certain someone is unlikely to let things go that far. In fact, at any moment now, that certain someone should have had enough of the theatrics.

"Yukimura."

_Finally_, thinks Yukimura to himself, _but that took him long enough. Sanada better not be slacking._

"You go ahead, Sanada," he says in a low voice meant for exactly one pair of ears only, while maintaining a polite smile at Director-san who looks far from pleased. "We'll only accept it if it's you."

"_You're_ our captain," Sanada promply mutters back, his tone overflowing with disapproval. "What are you playing at with all this nonsense?"

"We shouldn't keep everyone waiting," insists Yukimura gently, but in his buchou-voice to make it clear (as if Sanada wasn't aware of it already) that this is an _order_, not a friendly suggestion.

There is a small, irritated sigh; but not a full second later, Sanada steps out of Yukimura's shadow, muttering under his breath as he marches past, "...tarundoru."

Yukimura isn't sure of what Sanada means by that exactly, but hearing him say it feels strangely comforting.

"Seiichi," murmurs a voice near his ear. "That was very generous of you."

Only one person on the team calls Yukimura that, and he must have discreetly moved forwards as soon as Sanada broke formation. It's one of their many unspoken rules, along with not asking unnecessary questions about the rock in Sanada's tennis bag and not forcing Yanagi along for karaoke ever again; in the unlikely event that one of them should be absent, the others step in to fill the void left behind to the best of their abilities.

"He deserves it, Renji," replies Yukimura quietly, idly watching as Director-san quickly wipes his face and forehead with a spotted handkerchief as Sanada accepts Rikkai's plaque from the AJJTA president with stiff but respectful bow. "Even if it isn't the Championship this time, I can't think of anyone who deserves the recognition more than Sanada."

Yukimura honestly doesn't expect Renji to comment on the obvious (Renji usually doesn't), but something's brief but firm contact with his right shoulder speaks of approval in a way that Yanagi Renji never would out loud.

But then Sanada steps down from the makeshift podium, quickly making his way back to them, with twice the purpose in his steps (and twice the murder in his eyes, Yukimura concludes with equal parts fondness and amusement) as when he left, and Renji wisely shuffles back a few steps to reclaim his proper place in front of Akaya.

The vice-captain proceeds to dispose of their spoil by simply and unceremoniously dumping it into Yukimura's hands with a fabulously pointed look – _Next time, get your damn award yourself, Yukimura,_ it seems to say – before he rejoins the ranks to the sounds of a distinctively Niou-ish snicker swiftly followed by a typically Yagyuu-esque reprimand.

He is still studying the neat inscription when Director-san says something about Seishun Gakuen being the winner of this year's competition and the sports arena promptly explodes with applause all over again.

—Well.

The plaque looks nice enough, Yukimura supposes. But silverware has a _much_ better feel to it.


End file.
